


The Stories We Tell Ourselves

by Songofpsalms297



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Pre-Relationship, These two!, Varric's got a dirty mind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-11-01 08:06:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10917753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Songofpsalms297/pseuds/Songofpsalms297
Summary: Another Varric/Cassandra fic! I'm sorry, but I'm not. :D I hope you enjoy! Please let me know if I've missed anything.





	The Stories We Tell Ourselves

**Author's Note:**

> I am undecided how to handle the conversation between Varric and Aveline in the beginning of the story. I feel some part of it needs to be there. Sets the tone for Varric's attitude throughout the rest of the story. It just seems...clunky. Feel free to weigh in.

She tried to intimidate him, that was cute. He hadn’t been friends with Kirkwall’s Guard Captain and resident bad ass for over a decade without gaining a real appreciation for intimidating. He chuckled whenever he thought back to one of his earliest conversations with now Guard Captain Hendyr. He’d tried to draw her out, build a tentative friendship with the taciturn red haired warrior.

“So, what do you do, Aveline?” He’d asked while Hawke had them all trudging through the ass end of Sundermount.

She’d replied in her typical terse manner. “You know I’m a guard, why are you asking?” He’d tried a different tack.

“I mean in your off-duty hours.” Attempting to inject a little levity into their banter, “For fun. You’ve heard of it, I hope?” He’d grinned, hoping to get her to at least crack a smile. Maker, she was serious.

“These are my off-duty hours.” No smile, no softening of the crease between her carrot colored brows. He couldn't’ help it, he gulped. Audibly. Broody’d heard it, and grinned at him. Aveline quirked an eyebrow at him in question. How she managed to look pissed and confused at the same time was beyond him.

“And the trend of you scaring the piss out of me continues.” Hawke had mercifully ended their opportunity to further the conversation by jumping into a crowd of Tal-Vashoth, staff and spells flying everywhere.

The dark-haired seeker of truth began to stalk toward his seat in the interrogation room. He had to admit, the way she moved reminded him of one of those long, red lions. The ones capable of taking down a bear by itself. She was adorable when compared to Aveline Hendyr. He admitted to himself, the seeker was certainly scarier than Hawke. He muffled a snort by pretending to cough. Hawke scared himself far more often than he scared anyone else. He’d become Champion of Kirkwall mostly because he stuck his nose into everyone’s business, and wanted to fix everyone’s hurt. Hell, the people of Kirkwall had practically begged Hawke to take the Viscountship, but he had run off to help someone else instead of the city he’d rescued for a decade. Varric had cheered his best friend on when he left. They both loved Kirkwall, but it had taken far more from Hawke than he’d had to give. His family, his life. His friend needed a vacation, desperately. Hawke and Daisy would heal together.

Varric had known he would be pulled in to be interrogated about Hawke’s whereabouts because that’s the sort of thing Aveline and Donnic had shared with their group over games of Wicked Grace in the Hanged Man over a decade of friendship. This family Varric had found helped heal his jaded view of family, and relationships. Aveline had tipped Varric off that someone was looking for Hawke, and Varric had decided then he would do his best to weave a windy tale of joy and tragedy that would hopefully give Hawke and Daisy ample time to disappear.

His eyes jumped from her amber pools to her lips. His pulse jumped as she leaned in, he smothered a chuckle, Maker, she was close enough to kiss. A whisper away, really. He tried to focus on her words, she was growling a question at him. Andraste’s pleated knickers, her scent was heady, evoking images of fireplaces, glistening skin, air between them spiced with arousal, moans coaxed from her radiant body. Her eyes sparkling with irritation, and something else, a touch of mischief perhaps, and glints of gold…

The downward flash of silver rocketed him fully into the present. He gingerly moved the damaged book away from his less than happy bits.

Bartrand had once said Varric’s mouth was so used to talking he could spin a line of bullshit without having to think about what he was saying, and could convince a duster he was next in line for the Shaperate’s job. That wasn’t true. However, years of having to deflect the Merchant’s Guild’s envoys from the Tethras’ family’s personal issues was something he’d done for decades at this point. He’d learned how to spin a convincing tale, all the while evaluating escape options which would yield minimal permanent bodily damage.

Spinning a bullshit story for this seeker of truth, buying time for his best friend/brother and Daisy to escape the wrath of the Chantry, while this seeker played her intimidation games, hell, that was child’s play. He just needed to keep in mind the story of the Champion, embellish things a little here, a little there. He needed to remember to watch his audiences tells, she’d let him know what details to expand upon, and what to avoid, or cut short.

After her “Bullshit!” interruption of his favorite beginning of the _Tale of the Champion_ where Junior, and Hawke take on an ogre by themselves before being rescued by Flemeth, he reeled in the story, and stuck to a grittier version of events.

He enjoyed the vision before him being drawn into his tale, the way she blushed when something romantic came up, slight rose dusting those Nevarran cheeks. She leaned closer in anticipation when a fight scene arose. The seemingly never-ending waves of attackers rose in number because her breath hitched at those points in the story where it seemed the heroes might not make it. The eager rise and fall of her chest as she waited, sometimes literally, on the edge of her seat across the table from him. He had to fight his own very clear reaction to her responses.

He took “authorial liberties” with Hawke’s appearance, gave him dark, spiky hair, amber eyes that reflected his every emotion, a well-built swordsman’s frame. He reasoned with himself he was embellishing his friend’s appearance to throw off the inevitable Chantry pursuit. Something to help his best friends outrun the shitstorm Blondie had started. Any resemblance to Varric’s very attractive interrogator was entirely incidental.

Besides, Varric thought, she really knew how to handle a weapon.


End file.
